The handkerchief with his scent
is tucked away safely
from the forces of time and wear.
Who am I kidding?
Just as the scent shall inevitably fade
so shall our friendship ever remain.
As I watch him ride, horseback,
across seemingly endless plains,
his face - not the landscape -
is what my hands recreate with paint.
What am I hoping for?
Just as the eyes I paint
will never truly seek mine,
so shall my dreams disappear with time.
Unchaperoned, I stand alone and amused
that he danced with all the girls but me
yet I still hoped, even in mourning black,
that his gaze might wander to where I stood.
What am I still holding on to?
Just as this season will end,
so will my chest hopefully lose its flutter
at the sight of the gleaming gold on his finger.
Finally, bespectacled and quite grey,
I watch as the journal too filled with him
disappears in the long under-fed flames.
The old book is but a small sacrifice
for the children I shelter tonight.
Though ruffians and juveniles my company may be,
it is their three words that give me restful sleep.
Already, my eyes start to see what I nearly missed.
As I turn in for the night, my heart finds healing
in faint "thank you"s and "goodnight"s.